


A Dead Soul Feels

by lordelannette



Series: Dark Steve Rogers Fics [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky is 18, Character Death, Dark Steve Rogers, Halloween Inspired, Horror, Innocent James "Bucky" Barnes, Insanity, Jealous Steve Rogers, M/M, Murderer Steve, Obsession, POV Multiple, Possessive Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sarah Rogers Bashing, Stabbing, Stalking, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-12 04:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20986520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordelannette/pseuds/lordelannette
Summary: When Steve is ten years old, he kills his mother and gets locked away indefinitely. Twenty years later, he breaks out and returns home only to find something that makes his dead soul feel.





	A Dead Soul Feels

**Author's Note:**

> First off, this story is originally a Sherlock Holmes fic that one of my good friends wrote and after asking her permission, I adapted it into a Stucky fic with a bit more content. 
> 
> Second, I originally wanted to post this on Halloween but said fuck it because October is worthy enough to be spooky all month long so why not give it to you guys early y'know? 
> 
> Lastly, I have this fic as complete for now but don't be too shocked if this gets another chapter because I'm feeling a little twisted minded and might add some more explicit material. It just depends on how good this goes because I have two other stories that are DEMANDING to be finished.

Steve

* * *

There hasn’t been a day that’s passed that he doesn’t remember that evening. When something had felt so good, it’s hard not to, getting caught up in the longing for the chance to do it all over again. 

It had been intoxicating, empowering, _ freeing _. 

Each detail of it was seared into his memory, every loving moment archived so he could run it over and over again in his head when he was alone in his plexiglass cell, eyes closed as his hands went through the same motions from all those years ago.

Up the stairs first. He had watched his mom’s boyfriend, Fury, leave just moments before, leaving the house quickly because this was their custom, a quick rendezvous before they both went back to their lives as if nothing ever happened. He’d wanted to catch Fury too, but that hadn’t been an option. Fury would be messy. Fury was much bigger than Steve had been at the age of ten, weighing barely a hundred pounds soaking wet. Fury would put up a fight. Fury would scream. The whole point of it had been to stay quiet, quiet, quiet. Well, that wasn’t _ really _the point, but it was part of it. He needed the quiet for what he had planned to do.

So up the stairs, slowly, one at a time. The knife was solid, heavy, big in his still small hand. Somehow the makeshift mask just felt right over his face, not as a means to protect his identity, but as a means to transform. He had kept the dark blue cloth under his bed for weeks prior, taking his time cutting out the eye holes so he could see, letting his too bright blond hair get hidden underneath. It was a different disguise for the different person he wanted to become, _ would _become. It had just felt…right. 

Down the hall. The bedroom door had still been open. His mother had stood by the window, barely covered in a robe as she watched Fury hurry away, but she turned a moment later at the steps behind her.

“Steve, what are you—” The words died in her throat at the first movement of the knife, a clean arc into her chest, a deep plunge before it was pulled back again, then driven in and in and in and in and in and in and in—

He had lost count of the stab wounds. There’d been at least in the double digits by the time she had stopped screaming, and even after that he’d just kept going, losing himself in the clean slide of the blade into flesh, in the force applied to push it in and pull it back out again. 

Eventually, though, he had tired, and there were headlights in the window.

Back down the stairs, he had gone. The door was open for the warm night, just the screen left, and he had pushed it open, hearing it snap back against the frame as he walked slowly, calmly down the steps. He felt so calm at the moment, the sick anger in his stomach fading now that it was done. Now that the evidence was all over his hands and clothes and the blade he still held in his hands.

His father was there, about to walk into the house, but stopped as Steve slipped the cowl off. 

“Steve?” his dad had asked, his tone in a fragile balance between sanity and astonishment over the implications of his state. Steve’s only answer, given while looking back at his dad with pale eyes, was a small, pleased smile. Killing had felt good. It quieted the turbulent landscapes of his mind, soothing them into submission as he focused solely on the sensation, on the rush of elation that came from snuffing out a human life. And he wanted to do it again.

But that had been the only time. He’d been put in a cell and never allowed to leave, certainly never allowed to go into the outdoors that beckoned from the one window of his cell. It didn’t feel good to be here. He didn’t like it at all. They all looked at him funny and called him names when they thought no one else was paying attention, and he was supposed to take pills on a daily basis that made his head fuzzy and made it hard for him to _ think _. They caught him spitting them underneath his mattress and started injecting them instead, not giving him an opportunity to disobey. It was sometime around when the injections started that Banner started to visit him.

Banner was dull. He was a doctor, or at least that’s what he said, and he was supposed to make Steve better. How, exactly? There was nothing _ wrong _with him. He was perfectly fine. The only thing that was wrong was that he couldn’t get outside and try it again. See if all the noise in his head could be quieted in the same way it was before. With his mother’s blood all over his hands, slippery and darker than he’d expected, staining his favorite blue polo. Banner asked him about that a lot. Asked him about that night, and what happened. Steve didn’t give Banner any answers, didn’t give him anything at all. There was no point in speaking to him, it would go nowhere and he didn’t find Banner interesting enough to actually talk to. No one was interesting enough for him to speak to, no matter how many doctors and psychologists and psychiatrists and therapists they paraded in front of him, Banner always coming back whenever the latest one was through.

They’ve played this game for years. Twenty, in fact. Banner watched him transform from a bony ten year old boy to a full grown man, constructed of muscle and mass from doing nothing but exercises to waste his time. And time after time, Banner always came back and tried to ask Steve the same questions, though his voice was tired now, his hair silver-black, and his glasses thicker.

“You seem excited today,” Banner commented one day. “Is that because tomorrow is the anniversary?”

Twenty years since that fateful day. Twenty years locked away, the itch beneath the layers of his skin gnawing at him like an overgrown parasite. Twenty years gone _ but _not another one to be wasted being confined into this hell. Oh no, not anymore. Though he wasn’t about to tell Dr. Banner about that. Steve kept his lips sealed, staring back at the doctor with blank eyes.

Banner sighed heavily. “Right then. I’m just going to assume. Important holiday for you, I guess. If you even care about what you did.” The doctor’s eyes turned a touch steely, staring directly back at Steve. “And I know you don’t.”

More silence. Steve started cataloguing the shades of silver in Banner’s hair to entertain himself. Excited as he was, these meetings were just as dull and uneventful as ever.

“Alright, Steve. I’ll leave you be, then, so you can go back to staring at the wall. Don’t get too excited or they’ll have to sedate you again,” Banner said, standing up from his chair outside the cell. “I’ll see you tomorrow for the transfer.”

Steve gave him a small little smile, the only one he ever had, and Banner nearly flinched back just from the shock of it. Banner stared at him for a minute, brow dropped low over his eyes in concern, and then started heading out, casting occasional glances back at the cell before he was out of sight. Doctor Banner didn’t know what was going to happen tomorrow. That they weren’t going to talk then, or _ ever _again. He was done with these silly non-conversations and the syringes and the whispers about him and the looks he got from everyone in this place. But mostly he was done with being trapped, being caged like some kind of dangerous creature being held back for the public’s sake. He wanted to be free. He wanted to kill.

So tomorrow, when the transport came, he was going to make sure that he got away. They were unprepared for him, and he’d be able to escape with relative ease, as long as they were as stupid as he assumed. If they were similar at all to Banner, then this would be easy.

And in the end, it was.

* * *

Bucky

* * *

“What do you mean, you’re both babysitting?”

“It’s a very simple concept, Brock, I assure you,” Bucky said, throwing a smile at him.

Brock frowned, still continuing to walk backwards in front of Bucky and Sharon on the pavement in a way that made Bucky distinctly nervous. “But it’s Friday,” Brock said, his frown bordering the edge of a full-on pout. “You’re supposed to have _ exciting _plans, not be babysitting children.”

“I already promised the Starks that I’d watch Morgan,” Sharon answered, pulling her books tighter to her chest.

Bucky looked at her sideways and gave her a look. “Oh please, you said Phil might be over. That hardly counts.”

Brock grinned as Sharon flushed and adjusted her books again, her blonde ponytail swaying slightly as she walked. “I said _ might _,” she said defensively, but the blush she was sporting made it hard to defend that position. “And of course Morgan would be my priority.”

“No,” Bucky dragged the word out, rolling his eyes playfully. “What’s going to happen is you’re going to call me at some point and beg me to take her for a little while so you and Phil can have some alone time,” Bucky pointed out, amused, then turned his eyes to Brock. “You’re about to trip.”

Brock turned back the proper way, jumping over the tree root that would have easily taken him out, and Bucky managed to relax a bit, the line of his shoulders smoothing out. Brock caught the change, giving him a smile with a spark in his eyes that Bucky instantly turned away from, clearing his throat. Sharon was in the middle of saying something that he only caught the tail end of.

“—and it would only be for a little while anyway.” She paused, biting her lip. “If it happened at all. He might be grounded.”

“Grounded just means he’ll sneak out the window instead, and I doubt the wet hand towel Coulson has for a father will even try to stop him,” Brock drawled lazily, sliding his hands into his pockets. He was the only one not carrying a bag or books, and Bucky once again envied him since he was allowed to do the least amount of work possible in class and still receive the highest marks.

“Oh come on, he’s not a hand towel,” Bucky retorted, grinning at both of his friends. “Imagine having Phil for a son, how on earth would you be able to manage him?”

“He’s not that bad!” Sharon protested. “He’s almost as much of a menace to society as Brock and you know it.”

Brock pretended to look wounded at that, making an indigent sound. “You should have seen us before we met the two of you,” Brock said, shooting Bucky a wink that Bucky desperately tried to pretend he didn’t blush slightly at. “I’ve never seen Phil so well behaved. You put quite the leash on him, Carter.”

“There’s no leashes on anyone,” Sharon mumbled, sporting impressively red cheeks.

Brock completely ignored her, continuing, “_ And _ I’ve been an angel since I met you, isn’t that right, Bucky Bear?”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “If this is your definition of angelic behavior, I’m honestly frightened to think about how you were before.”

“Saintly,” Brock answered with a grin, and Bucky shook his head, a smile slowly breaking out over his lips.

“This is me,” Sharon suddenly called out, interrupting the few seconds of eye contact between the two of them. They stopped walking at the corner where Sharon’s street intersected with the one they were currently on. “So I’ll see you later, Bucky?”

“I’ll make sure Becca knows she’ll might have a playmate,” Bucky said, and Sharon blushed as she turned away, heading down the street with a little wave. He and Brock started walking again, Brock setting a more leisurely pace despite Bucky’s clear desire to make it home a little faster.

“Sure you can’t get out of babysitting tonight?” Brock asked after a minute of companionable silence.

Bucky looks at him through the hair hanging in front of his forehead, peeking through the strands. “Why, planning on asking me to another one of those terrible parties you keep trying to get me to attend?” Bucky asked, a laugh in his voice. “I already made a commitment, Brock, I’m not backing out of it now.”

Brock pouted, seeming defeated for a moment before popping back into a smile. “So maybe I’ll stop by for a visit.”

“I’m sure you have better things to do with your night,” Bucky snipped back, though he was smiling. “Besides, you hate children.”

“You’ve never seen me around children, how do you know I hate them?”

Bucky laughed, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “I know you. Very well, I like to think. And I can’t see you getting along with children. You’re too much of one.”

“Ooh, wandering into insults now, Buck?” Jim gave him a smile, his eyes sparking up in that way that had Bucky’s smile growing wider. “Aren’t you supposed to be the nice little golden boy?”

“You call me that, that doesn’t mean it’s accurate.”

Brock smiled, sliding to stand in front of Bucky and stopping him with a hand to the chest. “Oh, but isn’t it true, pet?” he asked, and shifted closer to Bucky, their chests nearly touching. Bucky tried to pretend his heart didn’t speed up at the suddenly increased proximity, but Brock’s smirk seemed to indicate that he could feel it with his hand. Brock dropped his voice a bit lower, into something bordering the edge of sultry. “Always the well-behaved little golden boy? You must get so bored. I could help with that, you know. Spice things up a bit.”

Bucky didn’t respond for a minute, caught in the heatedly focused brown gaze Brock had trained on him, his own blue eyes shifting between Brock’s as he tried to pull his gaze away. Yeah, okay, he couldn’t quite claim ‘straight’ when Brock was involved. Brock didn’t care what he claimed, and it wasn’t exactly true, either. He wasn’t sure what to label himself as, at the moment, but considering he’d never actually dated any men and Brock hitting on him made him nervous in a distinctly virginal way despite his previous experience with girls, gay didn’t exactly fit, but neither did straight. And as much as he liked Brock, he called up the same sickly anxious feeling Bucky had the first time he slept with a girl, and at the moment, he wasn’t ready to face that.

So he gently pushed Brock away by the shoulders, giving him a slightly rueful smile at the same time. “Sorry, but I think I’ll stick to my boring life for the time being,” he answered. “But if I need any excitement, I know who to turn to.”

“Just keep it in mind,” Brock said with a wink, smiling despite the rejection. He always smiled whenever Bucky rejected him, and never let it stop him, either. He’d ease up for a day, then go straight back to the winking and flirting and slowly chipping away at Bucky’s reluctance. He seemed convinced that one of these days he was actually going to get something for his trouble, and if Bucky was being honest, he was probably right. Just not today.

Bucky smiled, turning his head away to avoid the far too enticing look Brock was giving him and looking back the way they came. He paused, brow furrowing, and Brock asked, “What is it?”

“That car,” Bucky said, nodding his chin at the jeep with the sticker on the side that he couldn’t read from this distance. It was slowly driving up the street, not far away, and the windows were thrown into a shade that made it difficult to see inside. “It was parked outside the school earlier, I saw it.”

Brock followed his gaze, both of them watching the car as it went by, moving a little faster, though it was still too hard to see inside of it. Brock just shrugged. “Small town. Can’t read the side panel, could be a landscaping company come to do a house that also works at the school.”

Bucky looked in the direction the car had gone in for a minute more before shaking himself out of it and turning back, smiling at Brock. “Right,” he said, and Brock smiled back. 

“Don’t tell me I have competition, Buchanan,” he said. “I thought I was your only stalker.”

Bucky laughed. “Yeah, I think you’re unchallenged on that one, Rumlow,” he said, starting to walk again, and Brock followed. “But I’m flattered that you’re jealous.”

“Not jealous,” Brock retorted with faux affrontement. “Just a _ tiny _bit possessive.”

“Oh, because that’s clearly such a different thing,” Bucky shot back. 

They continued on like this as they walked down the street, and neither of them noticed the jeep that was parked way up the street from them, the driver still inside and watching through their rearview mirror.

* * *

Steve

_ Six hours earlier... _

* * *

He’d visited the house first.

It was strange, seeing the place that had started it all. It was closed off, a ‘for sale’ sign out on the front lawn that looked like it’d been there for quite a while. Of course. No one wanted to buy the site of a ‘tragedy’, and the twenty years that had passed had probably only made the horror stories stronger. He wondered if he was a tale meant to scare children now. The haunted Rogers’ house, where not even the bravest children went because the infamous, deranged Steve Rogers, would slay them just as he had slaid his very own mother. The thought nearly made him smile as he went up the steps, quickly picking the lock and slipping inside.

It was empty now, but completely untouched. It seemed that even the real estate agents didn’t want to go in to clean it, as a piss poor job had been done of it, and not recently judging by the dust patterns. He didn’t waste time, heading straight up the stairs and towards his parent’s room, pausing as he reached the doorway to take a slow, deep breath. 

Then he stepped in. 

There was a special quality in the air here, something both heavy and freeing. The air in the room seemed to carry the gravity of what had been done here, and he crouched down to lovingly run a hand over the blood stains still barely visible through a fresh coat of wood stain. They could try to cover it up all they liked; what had happened was written into the very fabric of the place, and couldn’t be erased no matter how hard they pulled at the stitching. Just like it was in him. Written across his soul for anyone who cared to look. This had been what changed him, what made him into what he really was. It freed him. Really, in an ironic way he had his mother to thank for that. His mother and her dirty, illicit ways, the sin she participated in regularly and with no remorse; Fury her compatriot in a tangle of sweaty limbs and panting breaths, of bedposts rattling against the walls and keeping him up throughout the nights while his father did his overnight security shifts. Steve still regretted not being able to kill Fury. It would have rounded out the set, punished them both.

Steve sighed, his breath stirring the dust motes floating in the sunrays slanting through the blinds. He let his eyes sweep once around the room, quick and effective, then he turned on his heel and walked right back out. He didn’t need to linger. He didn’t _ care _enough to stay. It was time to leave before anyone decided to come looking for him. Though that wouldn’t be for a while yet. He’d only escaped late last night, and while certain calls could be made to the town to warn of his possible presence, it’d still take them time and manpower they didn’t have to track him down. He was safe, for the time being, and a little time was all he needed to make sure they wouldn’t be able to find him again.

He left the house with a new sense of purpose, a sort of excitement putting a bounce in his step. It felt so good to be back here, to hold the memory of that night and the way it had felt to have his mom’s life slipping through his fingers. He hadn’t felt this alive since…well, since it happened. Taking life was what made him feel alive, and he’d only been able to do it once before. Decades ago. Oh, but he could change that. There was nothing stopping him from doing it again, here, tonight. But who to kill? It couldn’t be just anyone. He’d been punishing his mom when he did it, so now, he had to punish someone else as well. He wasn’t about to kill someone with no purpose. But how exactly was he going to find a victim? Stalking at random and hoping for a hit wasn’t going to help. It was the thought that vexed him as he drove around his old neighborhood, not sure where he was headed for the time being.

And then he’d seen him.

_ Oh _.

Pretty.

Brown hair. Blue eyes. Tall and slim. A smile that could and did light up the whole street, never mind a room. Younger than him, somewhere in his teenage years it seemed. A student still, with books clutched to his chest. Walking with a friend, a girl, no doubt both on their way to school. Steve nearly slammed on the brakes right then and there. Something had gripped his heart and squeezed, a strange sort of fluttering starting in his stomach that he’d never felt before, his palms were sweaty, his pupils dilating in a sign of interest, and he couldn’t stop staring.

_ What the hell was this? _ He’d never felt like this before. It held hints of excitement and nervousness in it, but it wasn’t either of them. It mirrored what he’d read about…attraction. But that definitely wasn’t possible. He’d never been interested in anything even remotely tied to either romance or sexuality. True, he’d been locked away for twenty years, but he’d had plenty of reading material, and they’d even given him porn as a psychological test to see if he’d have any physiological reactions. They’d been sadly disappointed on that count. He had absolutely no interest in affairs of the flesh, and wanted nothing to do with the people like his mother who engaged in such things. It was impure. _ Wrong _.

So what the hell was this? He’d never had any sort of interest in forming a connection with another human being, and yet as soon as he saw this boy, both his body and heart had reacted, leaving his mind entirely out of the equation and at a loss for what to do. What was he supposed to do? He was having some sort of— feeling for him, but what was he supposed to do about it? Was Steve supposed to kill him? No, currently he didn’t have a reason to kill him. Was Steve supposed to interact with him somehow? His heart called out at that thought, giving a painful twinge in his chest. _ Yes _, he wanted that very much. 

He ended up stalking the boy, unsure of what else to do. He followed the boy and his friend to the high school and parked on the street outside, in the position to see into one of the classrooms. Luckily, it was one that the boy entered later in the day, almost at the end of the school day. Steve had a clear view of him, sitting in the back of class and dutifully taking notes, occasionally wandering into doodles and answering the teacher when he was called on.

Watching the boy didn’t help any. Seeing him only made the feelings in Steve’s chest and body intensify. Because honestly, the boy was perfect. There was something about the way he moved, the way he talked, the way he smiled. He was beautiful. And, it seemed, clean, pure. Untouched in a way that Steve liked. He was just…different. There was no way to explain it, describe it, qualify or quantify it.

It drove Steve a bit insane, actually. Feelings had no place in his world of logic and reason, and he’d never had them like this before. Truth be told, he hadn’t had many before. Aside from that lovely flood of peace and calmness that came when Sarah Rogers was lying on the floor, looking up at him with dead eyes after she’d breathed her last gasp. True, there had been the anger that fueled the attack, and of course he’d had irritation at the doctors and scientists and at Doctor Banner when he came to bother and pester Steve and engage in boring conversations and experiments that went nowhere. Other than that, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt any real emotion. Oh, no, not true, he’d felt pleasure the night before his escape, knowing what was coming. So he did experience emotions. He wasn’t alexithymic but he’d never quite experienced them like this.

When school let out he was sure to find the boy again, this time finding him with two other people, the girl from this morning and a new boy, someone he immediately disliked. It was the way that he acted around his boy, the looks he gave him, the way his face lit up when he talked to him. The only good thing that this new boy did was give him a name for the object of his attention. Steve overheard it, when they were talking and laughing and he was driving slowly far behind them, far enough away that they wouldn’t see him but close enough that he could hear their loud, excited voices.

_ Bucky _.

So that was the name of the boy that seemed to have burned his way into Steve’s brain. Bucky. He liked it. A unique, strange sounding name. Bucky. Steve found himself repeating it over and over in his head as he followed them, his eyes trained the entire time on Bucky and Bucky alone. That was, until the other boy-- Brock, was it? He thought that was what Bucky had called him— dared to step in front of Bucky and put his hand on those slim shoulders. Actually physically touch Bucky, and then slide in close, like this was all okay. Like Bucky was his in some way.

What had previously been a fluttering in his stomach turned into a heated rage, twisting tight the longer Brock stayed near Bucky. He could only imagine what Brock was saying to him, could nearly feel the heat of Brock’s gaze from this distance. What right did Brock have to touch Bucky? Who gave him permission to do that? Certainly not Bucky, since he’d clearly been surprised by it. But if Bucky actually wanted something with Brock… well, he’d have to kill them both for being impure. _ Tainted _.

But as he was watching, Bucky did the most amazing thing; he reached up, and pushed Brock away. Gently, but still. The message was still there. Bucky was still pure, and Steve wouldn’t have to kill him. Brock, though, could be his release for the night. Him and the girl that had been with them earlier, if she proved to be the same as Brock. They could be his targets, for being so close to Bucky, for acting so familiar with him, for not realizing what kind of treasure they were in the presence of. Yes, yes, this would work. He could feel his back and shoulders relaxing at the thought, though maybe that was because for a minute, just a minute, he had Bucky’s full attention on him, those pretty blue eyes watching him as he slowly drove past.

God, why did it feel so good to have his attention, even for such a fleeting period of time? Even if Bucky had no idea who he was. Oh, but he would know. There was an excitement brewing in his stomach, something nearly electric in its intensity. He could get closer to Bucky. Close enough to fully see him, to touch him even. To have Bucky in his grasp, unable to run. Knowing him, knowing Steve’s true face. _ Oh god _. The very thought had his pulse picking up speed, his breathing sounding ragged even to his own ears. Tonight. Yes. He had a few preparations to make, a few items to procure first, but then he’d see him again. Have him.

* * *

Bruce Banner

* * *

It was slipping on towards early evening when Bruce found himself outside of the old Rogers’ house, staring up at shuttered windows and a bleak exterior. He’d seen photographs of it before, especially of the crime scene, but he’d never seen it in person. They’d shown those same photos to Steve, and anytime he saw his mother’s body or the room that he’d killed her in, the pleasure centers of his brain lit up like Christmas trees. That had been one of many things that had convinced Bruce that he wasn’t dealing with someone who was human. Not anymore. Maybe not ever, considering his first and only kill had been at the age of ten.

He took a long drag of his cigarette, blowing out smoke as he looked at the door to the place, honestly surprised that the exterior of the house was kept in any kind of shape. It looked like the kind of house that kids would love to throw rocks at, but then again, maybe they were afraid to. Everyone in this town must have known what happened here, and no doubt the story of Steve Rogers. So more likely the kids were terrified of throwing anything at this house, scared of waking up some ancient ghost or bringing the wrath of a locked up killer down on their heads, when in truth, they’d had nothing to fear until now. Until today.

“You must be the doctor that called me. Bruce Banner, right?”

He turned, blowing out a stream of smoke. “And you must be Nick Fury,” he said, offering his hand to the man who’d appeared. “I appreciate you taking the time to come out here, Chief.”

“You can call me Fury,” the man said, releasing his hand again, and turned to look at the house. There was a hard look on his face as he peered up, his finger resting on his gun. “So the little shit really escaped?”

That sparked Bruce’s interest and he could only laugh, but it was humorless and dry. “I wouldn’t quite call him little, not anymore.”

Fury didn’t look at him. He just kept staring at the house as if he could see something that Bruce couldn’t. “Well,” Fury said after a long pause, “The last I saw him, he was. I pushed for a death sentence back then so I would never have to lay my eyes on that monster again yet, here you are, telling me that he’s escaped. Mind telling me how the hell that happened?”

There were too many aspects that Bruce wanted to ask about but he chose his battle carefully and explained it as straightforward as he could. “Late last night when they were trying to transport him, somehow he managed to over take the guards. We’re working on getting the FBI involved, but for the moment, it’s only your police department.”

Fury still didn’t look at him. “How many guards?”

“He took out the four that guarded the transport from within.”

Fury let out a low, long whistle. And to Bruce’s shock, the Chief of Police goddamn chuckled. “At least I’ll have an excuse now.”

“An excuse?” Bruce repeated, confused. 

It was then that Fury finally turned toward him. His dark eyes were focused and there was a glint in them that Bruce recognized only belonging to the murderers and psychotics he saw back at the facility. “For unloading my clip into him,” Nick explained, grinning slowly. “I won’t stop shooting until I run out of bullets.”

“You think we’ll find him?”

“Steve Rogers will kill again,” Fury stated, calmly as if they were discussing nothing more than the weather. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he already has. It’s only a matter of time until someone finds him. All I know, is that it better be me.”

“If you’re so certain, shouldn’t we let everyone know then? Let the mass prepare themselves?”

Fury shook his head. “That’d only cause a massive panic, and that’d play right into him. Give him frightened people who make mistakes and are easy to pick off.”

Bruce frowned and threw his cigarette on the ground before shoving his heel into it. “So what exactly do you suggest we do? I doubt you have enough officers to have them patrol the entire town looking for anything suspicious.”

“No, he’ll want us to know he’s here,” Fury said firmly. “Even if he’s already been, I know he’ll be back to this house or somewhere nearby. A body’s gonna turn up eventually, doctor. So I only have one question.”

Bruce turned to look at the chief, silently nodding for him to continue. 

“Can you shoot?”

* * *

Bucky

* * *

“I knew it,” Bucky said when he opened the door to find Sharon standing on the other side, Morgan with her.

Sharon instantly flushed and stammered, “W-Well, Phil managed to get out for the night and you did say it’d be okay—”

“Of course it’s okay, Sharon.” He bent down to get closer to Morgan’s height, smiling at her. “Becca’s in the dining room and we’re about to make some cookies, so go find her and I’ll be in in just a minute.”

“Okay!” she said brightly, and ran off to join Becks.

He straightened up again, his smile slipping into something smug. “So how long is Phil going to be over?”

“Well I don’t know,” Sharon said, twisting her fingers together as she looked at her hands. “I thought maybe I could call you when he left. It wouldn’t be too late, of course! Just a little while.”

“And by a little while you mean a few hours while you and Phil get cozy upstairs,” he said with a smile, and Sharon’s blush deepened.

“We’re just going to hang out…” she murmured, and he laughed, saying, “Sharon, it’s me, you don’t have to lie to me. Go have fun with your boyfriend, alright? It’s Friday night, you deserve to have some fun.”

She managed a brief moment of eye contact with him, smiling. “Thank you, Buck.”

“Of course. Now go on, I’m sure he’ll be waiting for you rather impatiently,” he said, and she left with a small wave to him and steps quickened by excitement. He grinned, shaking his head as he closed the door, and headed into the dining room.

Cookie making was just as much of a mess as he’d thought it would be, but the girls had fun with it and produced a halfway decent batch that weren’t completely drowned in icing and sprinkles. Afterwards, the kids demanded to watch a movie so he put on _ Monsters Inc _ and had gone into the kitchen to make some popcorn when his cellphone rang.

“Hello?” he asked after picking it up.

“Bucky Bear.”

He smiled, leaning against the counter. “Hi, Brock. Decided I couldn’t babysit in peace?”

“More like I decided to relieve your boredom,” Brock answered, a grin in his voice. “Thought I’d pop over for a visit, if that’s alright.”

“Course it is. Sharon actually just came over to drop of Morgan a little while ago.”

Through the phone, Brock snorted. “Oh, of course she did. I take it Phil got out of the house, then.”

“Somehow,” Bucky said, keeping an eye on the popcorn maker to make sure nothing was burning. “So they’ll both be busy for a while.”

“Ooh, maybe I’ll go over there first and say hi.”

“No, Brock. Don’t you dare,” Bucky replied instantly.

He could hear the groan in Brock’s voice as he said, “You’re never any fun, Bucky. I’m still going to do it. I’ll see you in a little while, love.”

The line clicked dead before Bucky could reply at all, and he was smiling even as he shook his head, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Despite how much of a pain Brock could be, his conversations with him always left a smile on Bucky’s face, and he wondered how soon it would be until his resolve finally broke and he let Brock take him out. Soon, no doubt, though he didn’t know when. Oh well, it wasn’t a question for tonight. Right now he had kids to take care of, and he finished the popcorn and carried it back into the living room, settling down on the couch with the kids to watch the movie.

“Bucky, I saw a monster outside,” Becca said, curled up close by his side, and pointed at the window almost like she was scared of what was out there.

Bucky cast a glance over at it, seeing the house across the street that Sharon was in, but not seeing anyone out on the street. “I don’t see anyone, Becks,” he said, turning back to his sister.

“No, he was really there,” she insisted. “He was really tall and really big and I think he had a thing on his head because he had no hair and no forehead.”

Bucky usually would have dismissed it as a flight of childhood fancy, something silly, but Becca looked genuinely scared. Like she had actually seen something frightening out in the dark night, and only assigned it the label of boogeyman because she didn’t know what else to call it. Of course, something frightening to a kid could be something as simple as a stranger with facial scarring or something, but telling them that what’d they’d seen wasn’t real only led to more problems. Better to get an opportunity to explain to them that there was nothing to be afraid of, erase some of that easy fear that came during childhood.

“Okay, well if you see him again, let me know, alright?” he said, and Becca nodded quickly before ducking down again so the back of her head couldn’t be seen from the window.

Bucky turned back to the movie, watching Becca through the corner of his eye to make sure she calmed down during the course of it, but he found himself continually looking back towards the window, half expecting to see the boogeyman when he looked out. 

* * *

Steve

* * *

  
He was excited. Couldn’t ever remember being this excited, actually, though he likened it to the emotion most children experienced on Christmas morning. Oh! It was like when he received his first art kit. That was it. Only ten times better, and added to by the fluttering in his stomach produced by just seeing the house that Bucky was currently occupying, catching glimpses of him through the window. Glimpses weren’t going to satisfy him soon, but for now they were enough as he stood behind the tree and watched intently. Bucky looked so innocent. So sweet, taking care of the little girl and laughing and playing with her, looking right at home and very at ease. It made Steve long to have Bucky smiling at him like that and more shockingly, it made him ache for that picture-- walking through the front door to a house of his own, Bucky and their child embracing him, smiling at him, _ loving _him. Just picturing that scene caused that funny feeling in his chest to return, like something was playfully squeezing his heart. Steve didn’t understand it. He hadn’t technically met Bucky, he’d never actually interacted with him, and yet his emotional reactions were tied to him. If Bucky looked happy like he did now, then he was happy as well, but if someone dared to touch him… Steve nearly choked on the amount of anger that thought brought with it, his hand reflexively tightening and untightening into fists. Yes. Somehow, in such a short time, he’d begun to think of Bucky as his. Sort of like his dog, Dodger, had once been his, but not in quite the same way. Bucky wasn’t a pet. But Steve didn’t honestly know what he was.

The girl from earlier came to the house, bringing another child along with her. He read their lips during the conversation, and discovered that her name was Sharon, that she had a boyfriend, Phil, that was coming over, and that Bucky was now going to be responsible for both children so Sharon could be _ irresponsible _. The subtext in their conversation was hardly subtext at all, the message clear; Sharon and Phil were just like his mother, and as such, he could kill them. It was perfect.

He wanted to kill them just for being close to Bucky anyway, just for being so familiar with him, but this was better. This gave Steve an actual reason to do it that would satisfy him immensely on two separate levels, the head as well as the heart. He watched Sharon as she crossed the street again, coming so close to him without knowing it, and continued into the house. A minute later, he could see a light go on upstairs, and her silhouette in the window. Phil hadn’t arrived yet, he knew that from watching the two houses. As fixed as his eyes had been on Bucky, he’d still been aware of what was going on around himself, and no one but Sharon and Bucky had been in the two houses. Sharon first, then.

He fingered the knife within his jacket and moved from his position, creeping from the shadows. The knife stayed tucked away so he wouldn’t draw anyone’s attention if they happened to be looking right now, and Steve glanced around at the quiet street before heading towards the house. No one to see, no one to notice, no one to help. Exactly the way that he liked it.

The back door was unlocked when he tried it, and he slipped in silently, gently pulling it shut behind himself. The house itself was quiet, nearly deathly silent, the only noises the slight sounds from upstairs and the soft tick of the clock in the living room when he went down the hall that led to the stairs. The upstairs hall light and one lamp in the living room were the only two lights he could see on, and he clicked off the living room light before beginning to make his way upstairs, sticking to the edges of the staircase, the less worn parts that would make less noise. As a result, his ascent was silent, and he found himself slowly rounding the corner of the balcony made by the railing. He paused there, looking around for a moment, his senses narrowed in focus to only the feeling of his heart in his chest, pounding out an enthusiastic rhythm out of the excitement and anticipation that had seized his body. The rest of the rooms around him were dark, quiet, but directly ahead there was light peeking out from around the partially closed door, and he could hear soft humming and some rustling.

One. Two. Three. Four steps, and he spread his hand across the door to push it open. Sharon was directly in front of him, her back to him as she stripped, at this point left in a silky cami and a pair of lace edged panties. Preparing for Phil, no doubt. He paused a moment, his mind drifting into thoughts of Bucky in lace and silk, preparing for _ him _, and he didn’t catch what was happening until Sharon had already turned, catching sight of him.

There was a breathless moment, a pause in which their eyes connected and he knew she realized what was about to happen. And then she tried to scream and he pulled out the knife.

He won.

In and in and in and in and in and in—he lost himself in the slide of the blade in her flesh, in the clean and easy way it sheathed itself inside of her. It was almost obscene, how good it felt. In and out and again and again. He didn’t stop until the blade was drenched in her blood, christened with its first kill and prepared for more, ready for the next. He didn’t lose control of himself like he had with his mother. No, he was very in control of himself, in control of his actions, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop after just a few thrusts. It just felt too good to stop, that same blissfully calm feeling from his mom’s death coming back again and enveloping him in a comfortable warmth. Everything about it was lovely, from the warm, wet blood on his hands that was ruining the silk of her clothes, to the way she looked, head to the side and her eyes glassy. He just wanted to stay there, rubbing his hands in her blood, savoring the sensations, reveling in the feeling of killing again. But his ears picked up the sound of a door closing downstairs, then a call of, “Shar?”

Phil, then. Good, he was next in line.

Sharon had fallen back on the bed and he pulled back now, almost disappointed that he was wearing dark colors that didn’t show her blood, clothes he’d stolen at the first available opportunity to disguise the place he’d escaped from. He moved her body, positioning her on the bed and pulling the comforter up over her so it looked like she was just lying in bed, possibly asleep. One last, loving glance cast over the mess he’d made of her abdomen, then the comforter covered her from sight and he moved away, going to the wall by the door and pressing himself against it, waiting. Patiently waiting, as he listened to the steady steps approaching the bedroom, the soft scuffs of shoes on a hard wood floor.

Step. Step. Step. Step. A pause as the door was pushed fully open, and then a teenager with blond hair stepped into the room, walking past where he was hidden by the door. Phil.

“Did you fall asleep waiting, or is this just a present?” Phil asked, a layer of sin in his tone, and shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Steve pulled away from the wall, taking a silent step forward. Waiting. Patiently waiting.

He could see it in Phil’s face as he drew closer to the bed. The dawning realization, the growing feeling that something was very wrong, that he’d missed something essential. And then, _ oh _, there it was, and wasn’t it so sweet? That look of horror when he was close enough to see the blood, an expression that reminded Steve of his mother’s confused horror when he’d first stabbed her. It was delicious in a way, something that fed the rush that came with the realization of exactly how much power he had over the situation, over everyone involved. Over everything.

Steve waited until Phil pulled back the covers. There was an audible gasp, a sharp inhale as he covered his mouth with his hand. “No no no, no, Sharon, no—” he kept up in a stream, the words pouring out at the same time as tears started bubbling up, and Steve silently padded forward for the last few steps, grabbed the scarf around Phil’s neck, and yanked it tight.

In an instant he was gasping for air, scratching at the material to try and get it off, trying to turn to catch sight of his attacker. Steve kept a firm hold of him, the scarf balled up in his fists and pulled taut over Phil’s throat to choke him, Steve’s arms tensed along with his hands as his muscles worked. 

Steve kept his eyes focused out the window, watching Bucky from across the street. The soft light from the tv, casting shadows across his beautiful face, illuminating him in the darkness. His Bucky.

Phil fought, oh yes, he fought, and that in itself was rewarding, a rush as he struggled feebly against Steve, failing, slowly failing. The teen twisted and writhed in his grip, tried to hit him, even landed a few blows that only served to make him sharply yank the scarf tight again in anger, his gaze still never leaving Bucky. Slowly, though, the fight began to die out, Phil’s limbs beginning to fail as his oxygen starved brain started to give up the consciousness it had so desperately been holding onto. Slowly, so slowly, Phil began to slip to the floor, and Steve held the scarf tight as he eased Phil down, carefully letting him drop but keeping the pressure on the teen’s windpipe the whole time. He kept it like that for five minutes, counting second by second, even after Phil slipped into unconsciousness, just to make sure that he was really dead. 

Two fingers pressed to the pulse point on Phil’s neck confirmed it, and Steve pulled back, his eyes cold as he stood straight again and looked down at the teen.

Steve’s breathing was heavy, loud in the silent room as he was filled with a rush of pride and pleasure, a tangible swelling in his chest. He felt powerful, just, _ right _. These people had deserved to die, and he’d performed that duty. Killed them as punishment for what they’d done wrong. Promiscuity was the sin that he was curing them of.

He stayed like that for a long moment, just breathing and looking at both Phil’s body and the body in the bed, and then headed back out into the hallway. He had a few things to do before he could move on to the most important person. Before he could see the one person that really mattered in all of this, the person that he’d kill for. _ Bucky _.

* * *

Brock

* * *

It didn’t take Brock long at all to get to Sharon’s house, just a short walk from his own home down a darkened street. There were a few stray individuals-- some joggers, an older man walking his dog-- but the night air was relatively quiet for the most part, ignoring the faint owl and the cars driving by. He passed by a straggling group of students from the school that he recognized but didn’t bother to stop, most of them younger than him and the ones that were his age far too boring to talk to. There was a reason he only hung out with Sharon, Phil, and Bucky. All of them were much more interesting than anyone in their school. Sharon was a pleasant surprise, sweet and shy but occasionally coming out with a fearsome fire when he least expected it. Phil was the one closest to him in intelligence, and rather formidable besides in the most fascinating way. And Bucky… well, Bucky was a conductor of light. Bucky made him better, smarter, without even meaning to. He was also a supposed ‘good influence’ on him, keeping him away from some of the less than legal activities he could be doing. And besides that, Bucky was fascinating in what he hid under the surface; the danger covered by skinny jeans and loose t-shirts and smiles that borderline on seduction; the part of Bucky being incredibly good at shooting paintball and BB guns, his precision always jaw dropping; the softness and compassion of Bucky when he hugs Becca or watches as people talk to him, that curve of his lips always so tempting. There were a lot of reasons why he liked Bucky, and he mused about them as he kicked a stone on the ground as he walked. He was on his way to visit Bucky, after all, continually hoping that Bucky’s waning resistance would finally break and Brock would get what he wanted. At least a date. Just one, and he was sure he could win Bucky over. And eventually, Bucky would give that to him. 

Brock smiled as he pulled to a stop in front of the house, casting a glance across the street at the Bucky’s home. He could see Bucky sitting on the couch with the kids, ever a good babysitter. How adorably cute.

He turned back to the house Phil and Sharon were in, watching as the light in the bedroom went out. Oh good, he’d be able to surprise them in the middle of things. Brock smiled, slinking around the house to the backdoor, slipping inside and shutting it softly behind himself. He could hear noises upstairs, what honestly sounded like something heavy being moved, much to his confusion. Were they moving around the furniture or something? Why on earth would they do that?

He went around to the stairs, quietly creeping up them and making sure to make as little noise as possible, though under the sound of that heavy dragging, they probably wouldn’t be able to hear a damn thing. He rounded the corner of the balcony, looking towards the bedroom, and stopped in his tracks. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god oh god—

Instead of the closed bedroom door that he’d expected, he found a partially open door with a gap that he could see through into the room. Phil and Sharon were stretched out horizontally on the bed as he’d expected, but not at all in the horizontal tango they should have been in. Instead, he could see blood spread across Sharon’s abdomen, and Phil’s open, glassy eyes. And in the room, moving whatever heavy object he’d been hearing, was someone bent over that Brock could only see the back of. Their killer.

He backed up from the room as quietly as he could, walking backwards until he reached the stairs, at which point he went forward down them, keeping his head turned so that he could keep an eye on that dreadful room with the door partially open. Silent, silent, _ so silent _ , as he had to be. Because there was still a monster upstairs, and monsters could always hear you breathing. He moved into the kitchen, holding still in the darkness there and covering his mouth with his hand, covering up his breathing and quieting it even though he didn’t have to, not here. _ Get out _, he had to get out. But he was frozen, mind reeling at what he’d seen. Death. So much blood. His friend’s lifeless faces. They were really, completely dead, killed by some murderer for some unknown reason. A rapist, maybe? Or just a psychopath that had no good reason to do it.

Dead. He didn’t know how long he stood there, five, ten minutes. Who knew. Too long, for certain. He should have been running. At least he knew that Bucky was alright. But that meant that Bucky could be the next target, could be next on the killer’s list, along with the kids. Brock had to get them out before anything else happened. He was shaking slightly, body unable to handle the frightened and confused signals that his brain was sending him. Almost quietly, however, his ears picked up the sound of a door opening, the front if he was right. The killer leaving? Or maybe an accomplice coming in. Either way, he didn’t want to be here to find out. He needed to get out, and now.

Slowly, his frozen muscles began to work, his legs guiding him to the backdoor and helping him slip out of it, shutting it again behind himself silently. He crept out into the yard, taking a look around the corner into the front yard to make sure that everything was clear before he quickly darted across the street to the other house. He had to warn Bucky. He had to get him out. Now, before the killer struck again.

* * *

Bucky

_ Ten minutes prior… _

* * *

Bucky was starting to get worried, peeking out the curtains occasionally to look at the house across the street. Brock should have been here by now, and he hadn’t heard anything from Phil or Sharon. He could see Phil’s car parked out front, explaining the silence from them, but Brock was the one that was worrying him at the moment. Usually he wouldn’t be concerned, but something felt off tonight. Maybe it was just Becca’s talk about the boogeyman getting to him, feeding some long forgotten childhood fear. Whatever it was, it was making him nervous, continually getting up from the couch to look out the window, see if he could spot anything. He saw a light go off upstairs in the house, and turned away again, going back to the couch. A minute later, though, Becca cast a glance back, her eyes going wide as she repeatedly hit Bucky’s arm.

“What, Becks, what is it?” he asked, furrowing his brow in concern. Becca looked absolutely terrified, frightened out of her young mind.

“I saw the boogeyman again, he was dragging something, look!” Becca said insistently, and Bucky turned to look out the window, a terrible sense of dread rising up in the back of his mind. But there was nothing there. No one at all. He felt an awful anxiety stirring in his stomach all the same, making it churn with a nervous sort of nausea that he couldn’t ignore if he tried. He looked back at his sister, who still looked terrified, absolutely convinced of what she’d seen. Bucky was feeling worse about this by the second.

“Are you absolutely sure you saw him again?” Bucky asked, and Becca nodded adamantly, her eyes still wide in fear. Morgan was looking at them, her little brow dropped in concern, and Bucky sighed, hesitating for a moment before getting up and going to the window, pulling out his phone.

Calling Brock’s phone had no effect; he probably had it on silent so he could properly scare Phil and Sharon without his location being given away by the noise of his ringtone first. Of course Brock did. Bucky hesitated a minute, his thumb pausing above the call button before he tried Sharon’s phone, knowing she was more likely to pick up than Phil. A pause, several rings, and then the call was picked up, but without a greeting on the other end.

“Hello? Sharon?” he asked, brow furrowing. There was no response, and after a minute he became aware of heavy breathing on the other end of the line, and nothing more. His brow dropped lower, into true worry this time. “Sharon?”

He waited, but there was nothing, and then the line clicked completely dead. He pulled his phone away from his ear, staring at it for a moment before his eyes went back to the house across the street. Something was definitely wrong. Had to be wrong, right? That wasn’t a normal phone call like Sharon would do, not even something Brock or Phil would do if one of them had stolen her phone for the moment. Bucky bit his lip, watching the house for a minute more. He had to go to the house. Just to look around, see what was going on. Otherwise the worry would eat at his stomach, slowly drive him insane, and anyway, it was better to go over and check and be wrong about it than not go and miss something important. Something bad.

“Becca, Morgan, I’m going to go across the street for a minute, alright?” he said, turning away from the window again. They both nodded, and he continued, “I’m going to lock the front door. Don’t let anyone in that you don’t know.”

He went to the door, opening it and slipping out, his hand turning the lock with a quick flick of his wrist as he went past it. The door shut and securely locked—he tested the handle, _ yes, locked _—he started across the street, unaware of the curtain that twitched in the upstairs bedroom of the house he was headed towards.

The front door was unlocked when he got there, open, and he entered the house, casting a glance around. The lamp in the living room was on, but that was about it, the hallway light and the lights upstairs completely off. He paused for a moment, looking around the downstairs but not moving to explore it before he started up the stairs, moving quietly for some unknown reason. It just felt like the right thing to do at the moment, like if he disturbed the silence something bad would happen, something awful. He didn’t have any rational way to explain the ugly dread lingering at the back of his skull but it was there all the same, keeping him company as he rounded the corner of the balcony, seeing the mostly closed door of the bedroom dead ahead. He took quiet, careful steps, nearly sneaking up on the room which was disturbingly silent. He’d expected something, some noise, something to show him what was going on, but there was nothing. Just flat, dead silence. And slowly, so goddamn slowly, he pushed the door to the room open, his hand splayed across it. 

He stopped dead in his tracks, frozen by the sight in front of him. His lips parted in shock and a soft, gut wrenching sob cracked it’s way up his throat. He desperately wanted to go forward, and help his friend-- try to stop the already stagnant flow of Sharon’s blood and unwrap the cloth at Phil’s purple-blue neck as they laid side by side on the bed. Both pale and bloodless, that special shade of skin tone reserved for corpses. The contrast between that and the blood covering Sharon’s abdomen would have been pretty, under other circumstances. Now it was just…terrifying. 

Bucky’s back crashed into the wall behind him as his body struggled to breathe. He couldn’t look anymore and had to turn his head before his stomach upped itself. He backed up slowly from the room, not sure where he was going but knowing that he couldn’t be here. He had to get out, had to call the police, had to find a way to breathe again because his lungs seemed to have seized up in his chest and he needed that air. One shuddered, shaky breath, then another. He hadn’t realized he was clutching against the balcony railing until his fingers protested, joints locking painfully together.

There were a few moments of breathless silence, a deadly spell of silence over the house.

Then he became aware, distantly, of a sound in the room next to the bedroom. Soft, almost inaudible. The soft movement of air, a steady inhale and shorter exhale. Someone was breathing next to him.

Slowly, he turned his head to look at the room next to the bedroom in time to see something truly awful. Someone was emerging from the darkness, the top of their head covered in a navy blue cowl that showed nothing but a strong, pale jaw and bright blue eyes. Bucky’s own gaze stayed pinned on those eyes, his pounding heartbeats loud in the silence, until the glint of something shiny and dangerous caught his attention and he glanced downward. 

Bucky immediately jerked forward, trying to get away from the large man as he saw the knife in the killer’s hand, stained in blood that he could only assume was Sharon’s. Unfortunately, jerking forward made Bucky hit the railing and he tipped over, falling over the edge and tumbling down the stairs.

Pain blossomed throughout his body. It felt like he had been run over and as his head hit the floor at the bottom of the stairs, he was nearly knocked out, squeezing his eyes open and shut again in an effort to stay conscious, his head spinning and vision swimming. The breath was stripped straight from his lungs and his mouth gaped open as he desperately gasped for air. Everything hurt and he was having trouble pulling himself back together, mind drifting back and forth slowly, like it was moving through sticky sweet molasses to get back into full consciousness.

He was drawn sharply back into awareness by the sight of the killer standing at the landing of the stairs, and he scrambled to get up, kicking at the floor until he was up on his feet and moving as fast as he could to get to the door and throw it open. 

“Help!” he started shouting as he ran, and went to the nearest house, pounding on the door. “Help me, please!” The porch light flipped on for a moment, just a single moment, and then flicked off again, the house answering his plea with silence. He didn’t have time to stand and wait and ask again, the owners probably thinking he was playing a trick, and ran across the street, his one thought to get the children out, and out now. He fumbled with the keys at the door, casting a glance back to see where the killer was; slowly advancing towards him across the street, setting an almost leisurely pace for himself.

Bucky started to panic, the keys nearly falling out of his hands, and after a minute of struggling he managed to get the door open, falling gratefully through it and slamming it shut behind himself. He scrambled locking the door behind him and even as he heard the bolts lock in place, he rested his weight against it, his chest heaving violently. 

“Becca, Morgan!” he called, craning his neck to look into the living room. 

The couch was empty. And he heard nothing but silence ring in the house. 

He called both of their names again and when he was met with silence once more, he lunged up the stairs, feeling something heavy sink in his stomach. He tore through every room shouting their names, throwing himself into any and every crevice a kid could fit in but they were nowhere to be found. 

_ Where the fuck could they have gone? _

He raced back downstairs, casting a glance into the living room, and then stopped dead in his tracks. One of the full length windows in the living room was open. It hadn’t been when he’d first checked in there. Bucky froze, blood racing and his heart pounding loudly in his ears, his breathing all of the sudden sounding far too loud in the confined space of the hall. 

The killer was here. In his house. Somewhere close. 

Bucky lifted a hand to cover his own mouth and he hesitantly crossed into the living room, eyes darting around as he went to the fireplace and picked up one of the pokers, hefting it in his hand as he put his back to fireplace. It made him feel safer. Though really, not safe at all.

Silence reigned in the house for a minute as he scanned the room slowly. He could hear his own breathing, his own pulse in his ears, and it was making it that much harder to keep a level head. Calmly and rationally think about this, instead of panicking because there was a goddamn killer somewhere nearby who had just murdered two of his friends and was aiming for him next and he didn’t know where Brock was or where the kids had gone—but suddenly there was a hand clamping down on his wrist and twisting and he cried out, dropping the poker. The killer was there, _ oh god _, he was there, and Bucky struggled against him, kicking out and trying to hit whatever he could. But the killer had hold of his wrists in mere seconds, a hold tight enough to hurt, and slammed him against the wall, using his superior height as well as his body weight to hold him down as he pressed up against Bucky. The knife was nowhere to be seen.

Bucky stared at him, his eyes wide in terror. His body surprisingly wasn’t shaking, his mind going somewhat calm under his fear, quietly focused by the adrenaline pounding through his body and making every one of his senses sharp. Completely focused on what was going on. On the short and shallow breaths he was taking. On the heavy breathing coming from the killer that he recognized from the phone. On the images seared into his mind of Sharon and Phil stretched out on the bed, the contrast of the blood against the white sheets. On the killer as he leaned in close, and in a voice rusty with neglect and disuse, managed to growl out one word; “_ Mine _.”

* * *

Steve

* * *

He had him. Oh god,_ yes, yes _ , he had him, had Bucky sandwiched in between his body and the wall, completely at his mercy. Bucky had gone completely still now, freezing in his struggles in what appeared to be terror, and god, Steve just drank it all in. The smell of Bucky, clean with an undertone of sweetness, the feeling of being completely pressed up against him, the sight of him frozen, eyes wide in fear as he watched him, clearly afraid to make another move. His breathing was heavier than he’d meant it to be, his excitement getting the better of him. After all, he was so close to Bucky. So close, and finally able to _ touch _ , to properly _ see _ , to _ smell _. And this was the first time he had properly interacted with Bucky, the first time that he’d made his presence known, and Bucky was reacting beautifully to it. 

Steve’s body fit against Bucky’s in a way that was unbelievably perfect, like they were made to fit each other. Even standing up tall, the top of Bucky’s skull barely reached Steve’s sternum, his body thin and small compared to Steve’s. The boy would be unable to fight back. His arms and legs wouldn’t have the strength to kick or hit, not when Steve’s hands would hold him down, keeping him trapped beneath his own bulk. 

And the sound of Bucky’s voice, when he’d heard it on the phone earlier… Steve’s head was nearly swimming, too overwhelmed to properly think at the moment. It was all he could do to just _ feel _ . Bucky was perfect-- being everything that Steve hadn’t known he wanted, _ needed _.

He leaned in close to Bucky, reveling in the sharp intake of breath the action drew from the teen, and sniffed at the juncture of Bucky’s pale throat, scenting him for a moment. He smelled so good, something sweet and sharp, a pure scent of heaven and hell. Steve could drink in the scent of Bucky all day, just stay pressed against him like this, this close to him. He wanted all of Bucky. He wanted every inch of his skin to be pressed against Bucky’s own, letting their scents blend together. 

Steve shifted to press his forehead against Bucky’s but as he did, he realized it was nothing more than the press of his cowl against that tantalizing flesh. He transferred Bucky’s wrists to one hand so he could take it off, tossing it to ground as his hair tousled slightly, free now. Then his nose was against Bucky’s neck again, taking deep inhales that he released through his mouth in soft sighs. His head was dipped low and he let his forehead press against Bucky’s cheek bone. He was close enough that he could see Bucky’s pulse jumping underneath his skin, and Steve licked a line up his throat, getting a taste for him, then watched in delight as the jumping suddenly sped up. Bucky tasted good too. It was nearly unfair, how appealing he was. Even if Steve tried to resist, it was as if the gods were doing everything in their almighty power for him to want this boy. 

He pulled back enough to see Bucky’s eyes, searching that blue-grey for what Bucky was feeling right now, and only saw fear. Uncontrollable _ terror _. That almost made Steve frown. He didn’t want Bucky to be afraid of him, exactly. He wasn’t really sure what he wanted Bucky to feel, though. Happy, maybe, in his presence? After all, seeing Bucky smile produced that funny feeling in his chest, that pleasant sort of fluttering. But at the same time, he felt drunk off of power right now, higher than he’d ever been with Bucky beneath him like this, trapped, pliant. So what did Steve really want? He thought for a moment, his free hand skimming over Bucky’s chest, noting the shallow, quick breaths that the teen was taking. Mm. High was the perfect way to describe how he felt right now.

Finally, he came to a decision. At the very least, he wanted to move Bucky away from here, get him somewhere more private so Steve could have him at his leisure. He pulled the knife back out from his pocket, delighting in the way that Bucky’s eyes widened, his pulse, pounding against the hand holding his wrists, speeding up again. He pulled back just a bit, pulling Bucky with him and away from the wall. Pointing the knife at him, Steve released his wrists and stepped behind him, pushing him towards the stairs.

Bucky, the good boy that he was, didn’t try to run and dutifully climbed the stairs that he was led to. He watched Bucky walk ahead of him, admiring the way that his soft muscles moved and shifted as they worked, peeking through the tight material of his jeans. He spared a quick glance to the pictures hanging along the staircase and he saw Bucky in more than one, along with what Steve assumed were his parents and a little sister, the same girl Bucky had been watching earlier. Who was now nowhere to be seen. They passed a door that was ajar but Steve got a flash of pale pink paint and he continued to push Bucky forward. 

Steve continued to ease Bucky forward until he found the room with the largest bed and pushed him inside, turning Bucky around to face him again. Bucky seemed to be having difficulty breathing, and he splayed his hand across his small chest and pushed him onto the bed. Bucky instantly scrambled away from him, going to sit as far back as he could, his back against the headboard. The sight brought a smile to Steve’s lips, the same small, pleased one that he’d given Banner the day before he’d escaped. Ah, Bucky was so perfect, wasn’t he? Absolutely, completely perfect.

Steve paused at the foot of the bed, merely studying Bucky for a long minute, letting his eyes run up and down his lithe body, an examination, though there was little that was sexual in it. No, Steve was just taking in the sight of him, enjoying the fact that they were together, here, that Bucky was completely his at the moment and not in danger of being taken away for the time being. Steve’s pure little golden boy was here, all _ Steve’s _ for whatever _ Steve _ wanted to do. Just his. So what did he want to do? He really wasn’t sure, actually. Bucky was…a mystery. A present. An idol. Too many things, too many thoughts and ideas for Steve’s mind to even begin to sort itself out for the moment. He wasn’t sure what Bucky was; just that he _ wanted _him. And wanted him to know who Steve was.

“Steve,” he said, pointing the knife at himself for a moment, his baritone coming out with cobwebs on it from the years upon years he’d spent in silence, not speaking to anyone. Bucky was the only one worth speaking for, anyway. 

Steve came a little closer to him, rounding the corner of the bed, and Bucky instantly shrank away from him, but made no move to get off of the bed. _ Smart boy _ . Bucky knew better than to try and run. Bucky knew he didn’t have the upper hand here, and instead, was taking the best route by merely submitting, giving up altogether. Oh, _ so perfect _.

He studied Bucky for a moment more, then carefully placed a knee on the bed, looming over Bucky and bracing his arm against the headboard on the opposite side of the young teen. It was instant that Bucky shied away as much as he could, which wasn’t very far at this point. He could see how Bucky’s pupils had shrunk to pinpricks, a sign of stress, fear, and Steve knew that his own had to be blown wide with the sheer amount of interest he had in Bucky at the moment. Bucky was fascinating, for an array of reasons, and Steve was lucky to have him completely at his mercy, pressed back against the headboard in fear and caged in by the arm on the other side of him. It was fascinating just to watch the array of emotions that flickered through Bucky’s eyes, mostly fear and horror, but a tiny bit of confusion too. And there, when Steve had said his name, a bit of realization. So, Bucky knew who he was by his name, then. Had no doubt heard the stories, gone past the house, knew exactly what Steve had done in there, the day he’d first tasted blood and started craving more. Oh, how lovely. For some reason the thought of Bucky knowing exactly who he was made a rush of pleasure go through him, another smile gracing his lips. 

He never smiled this much.

Steve leaned in close to Bucky, eyes darting from Bucky’s blown-wide eyes to his lips, plump and pink and parted as he took in shallow gulps of air, his small body producing too much adrenaline and panicking at their proximity to each other. Steve wondered, just for a moment, what it would be like to press his own lips to them, just gently kiss Bucky. Maybe…maybe he could. Bucky certainly wasn’t going anywhere. But as he leaned in to try it, Bucky jerked away, and instantly Steve was raising the knife, prepared to plunge it in on instinct, and Bucky frantically cried out, “Steve—!” as he turned his beautiful face away and squeezed his eyes shut.

_ Oh _. Bucky had actually said his name. Bucky had cried his name with panic in his voice, and Steve could very easily pretend that it had been a call for his help. A call for him to come closer instead of move away. 

Steve lowered the blade again, staring at Bucky. Why was it that the use of his name, the thought of Bucky using it in different circumstances, was so appealing to him? Why did he like the sound of it so much? _ Why, why why why why _ did Bucky have this effect on him?

He stayed still for a moment, just breathing in the silence, and after a long, painfully quiet minute, Bucky opened his eyes, cautiously peeking at him beneath the brown locks that hung in front of his face. When Bucky realized that a blow wasn’t coming he turned back to Steve completely, breath coming in in ragged gasps, the panic from a minute ago still working its magic. Steve’s eyes returned to Bucky’s lips for a moment before they moved down as he gently touched the tip of the knife to Bucky’s cheek. The teen froze completely still. Still so compliant, so frightened and willing to do whatever it took to appease Steve so he wouldn’t strike out. It was adorable, in a way. He wondered briefly if this was what most ordinary people felt like when they saw small baby animals, because that’s what Bucky looked like. He trailed the knife tip gently down Bucky’s cheek, then down his thin chest, pausing at the waistband of his jeans. Steve’s eyes flicked back up to Bucky’s and found that the teen was looking at him, a distinctly different type of fear in his eyes. 

Steve liked it just as much as the old fear.

But he wasn’t going to do anything too rash. Didn’t want to rush things, didn’t want to push Bucky so far just yet. Not until he knew if that was what Bucky wanted. Or what Steve wanted in general. But for right now, in this immediate moment, Steve knew what he wanted to do, and he slowly moved in closer to Bucky, sitting on the edge of the bed. The hand that had been braced against the headboard went to the back of Bucky’s skull, touching the soft brown strands that curled against the nape of his neck. Then Steve leaned forward, and pressed his lips to Bucky’s.

Yes…he liked this. Bucky’s lips were soft against his, pliant in his terror and shock, and Steve moved gently against him, just a soft press of lips against lips. Bucky didn’t do anything to return the kiss, but Steve had already known that he wouldn’t and was just enjoying the sensation of touching the young man like this. Never before has Steve been this close to someone. He hasn’t touched someone in over twenty years and now he has _ this _ . The nerves beneath his fingertips felt like they were being electrocuted. And it felt _ good _. So incredibly good. 

The kiss was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Like standing under the hot spray of a shower and letting his muscles relax. He could feel the tension drain out of him, lost in the sensation of Bucky’s hair between his fingers and the soft press of their lips together. It was addictive. _ Bucky _was addictive.

And Steve was getting pulled deeper and deeper into the boy in front of him. 

This kiss wasn’t enough. Not anymore. Steve needs more-- he wants Bucky to respond, wants him to reciprocate this. Steve pushed against him with more force, making the kiss firmer as he tightened his hands in Bucky’s hair, but Bucky didn’t understand what Steve wanted until Steve held the knife a few scant millimeters away from the teen’s neck.

Then-- _ oh _\-- it was then that Bucky began to kiss back, though he was hesitant at first. His lips barely made the proper shape and not doing much more. It was a start, though, and Steve pressed his own lips insistently against Bucky’s before running his tongue along Bucky’s bottom lip, insistent on tasting him. Bucky instantly tried to jerk back, but he was still being held in place by the hand in his hair and relented, staying still. But he didn’t open his mouth. Instead of the gentle running of Steve’s tongue along the seam of Bucky’s lips, Steve resorted to a sharp nip that made Bucky suck in a breath of air and seized the opportunity presented, plunging his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, forcing the teen to keep it open for him as he moved around. He explored slowly, taking his time and letting his tongue run over all of the surfaces of Bucky’s mouth. Every swipe that Steve made, Bucky’s tongue retreated. 

This felt even better. Was this how Sarah had felt? When she and Fury wrestled in the sheets did it feel this good, the physical sensations combining with the tangible high that came from being able to touch Bucky like this, savor the sensations, hold him if Steve wanted to? Steve’s hand did, in fact, move, slipping down Bucky’s cheek to his chest, then sliding behind him to the small of his back so he could pull him closer, their chests nearly flush now. One arm wrapped around Bucky’s waist while Steve’s tongue continued in its slow exploration. He couldn’t imagine a better place to be. A better way to _ feel _.

After a few minutes, though, Steve pulled back, looking into Bucky’s pretty grey eyes. There was mostly confusion there, and still a touch of that fear that was holding Bucky in place, pinning him to the bed without moving. _ God _ , Steve had never felt as powerful as he did right now. He had complete control over Bucky, over his actions, and better than that, he just had Bucky. There, tangibly, in his arms. _ Was _there a better feeling in the world? He couldn’t remember having experienced one, couldn’t think of anything that came close. Even the rush that came with killing paled in comparison, and wasn’t that amazing? He’d thought that killing was the greatest sensation in the world. But Steve had been wrong. Bucky filled him with a strange mix of pleasure, possessiveness, and pride, and it entranced him at the same time as it caused a peculiar pain in his chest.

Because, really, could Steve have him? Where did they go from here? He had Bucky’s full attention, had full command of him for the moment, but he’d also just committed two murders, both of them being Bucky’s friends. He would have to leave town quickly, and could he bring the boy along? Yes, yes he could. He could very easily bring Bucky with him, lead him away at knifepoint if he had to. Well, at first, he would have to. But enough time spent with him and Bucky would start to turn around, begin to develop his own form of Stockholm Syndrome and finally succumb to him. It would take a lot of time and patience on his part, as Bucky would have to be very carefully trained, but eventually he _ could _be trained into loving him back. He knew enough about psychology and human behavior to make it stick, and then everything would be wonderful. Steve would be free, and he would have Bucky, and he could continue to slowly explore the strange, thrilling connection between them that Bucky seemed so eager to pull away from.

That was a shame, wasn’t it? The first thing he’d have to train Bucky out of. He simply watched Bucky for a moment, noting the shallow movements of his chest as he breathed, the soft sound of each inhale and exhale, the beat of his heart through the light touch of his fingers to Bucky’s throat when he moved his hand. Having his fingers on Bucky’s throat, even lightly like this, seemed to make the boy nervous, so Steve moved that hand to the brunet’s leg instead, sliding spread out fingertips up along his thigh.

That was the moment things fell apart.

Bucky kicked out at him, his shorter legs the perfect length to catch Steve in his abdomen, and as Steve folded in on himself, breath leaving in a rush of air, Bucky tried to scramble away from him on the bed. Steve regained himself enough in time to catch Bucky’s ankle in a vice-like grip, pulling sharply to tug the boy back towards him as Steve fully crawled onto the bed. Bucky tried to wriggle away from him and managed to land a few solid blows, a surprising bite lurking under the submissive front he’d put up. But Steve was stronger, and better, and after a heartbeat of struggle Steve landed a solid backhand across Bucky’s face that made the teen still, dazed by the hit. Steve acted quickly and straddled Bucky’s waist, pinning him to the bed and placing a warning hand on that pale throat, giving it a gentle squeeze to indicate his willingness to strangle him if need be. At least into unconsciousness. Steve didn’t want to truly hurt Bucky, after all. 

The hand at Bucky’s throat was all the warning that boy needed though and instantly, all of the fight drained from Bucky, and he went slack and pliant underneath Steve, his pulse fluttering against Steve’s hand.

Obedience was better. Steve took the opportunity to express that, leaning down to press his lips to the juncture between Bucky’s neck and shoulder. At first the contact was soft, gentle; a lover’s caress rather than a madman’s touch, and Steve had to admit that he almost liked it that way. _ Almost _. Without warning, he bit down hard, sinking his teeth into Bucky’s soft flesh. Bucky cried out, trying to twist away from the contact, but Steve held him in place with the hand on his throat, biting harder until he could taste blood. Only then did Steve release him, licking over the wound he’d made and pulling back, slowly licking the rest of Bucky’s blood off of his lips, savoring the taste of him. Bucky was staring up at him with wild grey eyes, frightened and beautiful and scared and Steve felt a rush of power at the sight. A slow smile spread across his lips that only seemed to frighten the boy more.

He leaned in close to Bucky again for another kiss and this time Bucky didn’t move away, sending a little thrill through Steve. The boy even kissed back, though it was barely and done very reluctantly. It was still worth something. See, Bucky could be trained. It would take fear, and power, and just a little bit of sweetness, but Bucky could be trained to love him back. He could be perfect.

The kiss was interrupted, however, by what sounded like a door opening downstairs, and in a second he was up on his feet, listening carefully. Stillness and silence, only the sound of Bucky’s labored breathing and his own, slightly heavy. Then something small, slight, something that could usually be dismissed as the house settling. Steve wasn’t so easily persuaded, nor was he that naive. 

He turned to Bucky, pressing a finger to his lips to indicate he needed to stay quiet, and then Steve slunk out of the room to see if he’d heard correctly, grip tightening on the knife in his hand.

* * *

Bruce Banner

* * *

The house had been silent for the entire night so far, and Bruce was beginning to feel a terrible heavy dread that he’d miscalculated, that he was completely off on Steve’s goals and his patterns of behavior. He’d studied Rogers for twenty years, watched him morph from a gangly little boy to the man he was now, and yet-- and _ yet _, he knew so very little about him. Just that there was a hole in Steve where a soul usually went, and that his silence wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the smile that he’d last given him the night before his escape. 

He should have seen it coming from that smile, honestly. Steve Rogers never smiled, rarely showed any emotion of any kind and yet, he had _ smiled _. All of the tests on Rogers might as well have been done on a corpse for all the reactions they got. Steve was silent, and still, and cooperated with all of them unless he got bored, which was more and more frequently as the years went on. It was clear that Rogers held open hostility for most of them, though less for him, for some reason. Maybe it was because Bruce was the only one to stick with him, the only one to keep trying after years and years and years of nothing in return for his efforts. It seemed like Rogers gave him a certain kind of respect for that.

But respect wasn’t going to do a damn thing for him now, though. There was a fear creeping up his spine, taking hold at the base of his skull and running its claws along the back of his neck. What if he was wrong? What if the worst had already happened and Steve was gone, bodies left in his wake and more to come? Because certainly, if Steve managed to evade capture, there were going to be more bodies. If Bruce had learned anything about Steve in their time together, he had learned that killing his mother was Steve’s fondest memory. The one he constantly returned to, ran over in his mind with that special glint in his eyes as his brain lit up with rare pleasure. Bruce had absolutely no doubt that at night, alone in his cell, Steve turned over that memory a dozen, a _ hundred _times with a fondness usually reserved by children for their favorite pets. Well, in a way, Steve was a child. Still, after all this time. Because he’d been inside a cell since he was ten, and hadn’t had the opportunity to develop like an average child, to be around his peers or family. Some of Steve’s issues could no doubt be blamed on that, but Bruce didn’t feel guilty in the slightest. At ten years old, Steve Rogers had made his choice. He had chosen his life, by taking Sarah’s life that night. And now, Bruce was afraid of what other choices Steve could be making. At this very moment. 

“Anything yet?” he asked Fury when the Chief of Police called him, the evening getting late now. The street was empty and silent, with the faint chirping of the crickets, and Bruce hadn’t seen any passersby for quite a while.

“We haven’t had any reports out of the ordinary,” he said. “Just the usual. No sign of him there?”

“Nothing at all,” Bruce replied. Even though he’s been sitting in the car, watching and waiting for almost eight hours now, he still moves his head left and right, praying to spot that familiar set of shoulders. 

“Alright, I’ll circle around again and be back around in a few minutes. See you then.” Fury hung up with a decisive click and Bruce put his phone back in his pocket, anxiously tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. But it wasn’t enough. His nerves were crawling under his skin, making him itch, and the soft weight in his jacket pocket was all the comfort that he needed. 

He took out his pack of cigarettes. Considering how the night was going, he needed one. He put it between his lips and was about to light it when he heard shouting, and looked to the street to see a teenage boy with dark hair, two little kids beside him as they all ran.

The cigarette fell lifelessly from his lips, hitting the car floor, and he quickly scrambled for the door. “Woah, what’s going on here?” he asked, stepping hastily onto the street, and the kids stopped, the teen grabbing the front of Bruce’s coat. His brown eyes were wild, a terror in them that gripped Bruce’s attention immediately and held it firmly in place.

“My friends—they’re” he sobbed “—they’re dead, someone m-murdered them, I don’t know who but they’re dead-- they’re both dead and Bucky—I—I got the kids out of the house but Bucky wasn’t there and I don’t know where he is, _ please _you have to help you have to help—” The teen was halfway through the speech when Bruce pulled out the gun he’d been keeping in his waistband, the one he’d prayed he wouldn’t have to use. The one Fury had given him. 

His fingers hastily dialed Fury's number, lifting the phone up to his ear. The line clicked and Bruce spewed everything the boy told him, feeling the panic kick in fully now. On the other end, Fury let's out a string of curses and the sudden blast of sirens echoes both in the phone, and the actual air he's breathing. Fury is close. Good. 

Because Bruce had been wrong. 

So. God-awfully. Wrong. 

* * *

Bucky

* * *

Oh god, Steve was mad.

The angry gleam in his blue eyes made Bucky’s blood run cold, made him freeze fearing that Steve would unleash that fury out on him. It was the only thought that would make it through Bucky’s brain, strangled as it was by sheer panic. 

The only sound in the room was their breathing, the slightly difficult breaths that came with trying to balance kissing and breathing, and though his heart was still pounding in his chest he managed to relax a bit. A tiny bit. Because, truly, Steve didn’t seem to want to hurt him. Amazingly. Steve had only threatened violence to get Bucky to do what he wanted, and honestly, considering the dark, unmistakingly fury he’d seen in Steve’s eyes when he tried to get away, a bite to his shoulder and a gentle squeeze of his throat was getting off mildly. And that didn’t make any sense to him because _ why _? Why had the psychopath latched onto him of all people, why was Steve Rogers giving him gentle kisses and soft touches, when he could have been brutally murdering him? Unless that was coming next. Unless this was all just a prelude, Steve playing with his food like a cat before going in for the kill. But it didn’t seem that way, which only made it all the more confusing.

Suddenly, Steve was completely off of him, standing again with a look of concentration as he seemed to listen to the house. Bucky stayed frozen on the bed, listening as well; there was a slight noise from downstairs, the kind that usually came from the house settling, or wind blowing from the cold October night. Apparently Steve thought it was something else, because he turned to Bucky, pressing a finger to his lips to indicate that he needed to be quiet before slinking out of the room, going into the hall.

_ Oh thank god. _ Some of the incredible tension that Bucky was holding was released in a shaky exhale, though he stayed still, his mind not processing the next step. What was he going to do? Where could he hide, where could he go? He stayed frozen, paralyzed by the thought of disobeying Steve and paying the consequences until slowly, so painstakingly slowly, he got to his feet, casting a glance out into the hallway. Steve was nowhere to be seen. It was Bucky’s only time to act. 

He quickly went over to the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony, opening them and going out to see if he’d be able to climb down somehow but no, no such luck. His parents were paranoid he’d try to sneak out one day and they had removed any chance he had. He couldn’t scream for help because Steve would hear him, so Bucky scrambled back in, leaving the door open to make it seem like he had actually left. Then Bucky went to the closet, closing the doors behind himself as he took shelter inside. His eyes darted around, looking for a shirt, a scarf, something that would help, and found a tie, quickly yanking it off of the hanger. He wrapped it solidly around the handles to the doors, incredibly thankful that the knobs were double sided so there were handles on the inside of the doors. He looped the fabric around the handles and sat down, pulling it taut and holding it there. If Steve tried to open the doors, the fabric wrapped around the handles would stop him, hold him back from Bucky for the time being. Hopefully he would buy Bucky’s gambit that he’d gone out on the balcony, but who really knew. There was no way of predicting that. Steve seemed smart, and skilled, and completely terrifying so far. More terrifying than the boogeyman of Bucky’s youth, any horror story on the news.

He waited in a breathless silence, making sure to keep his breathing quiet so he wouldn’t give away his location. The problem was that the floor in his bedroom was carpeted, and Steve had already proven himself to be completely silent in his approaches, so there was no way of knowing when he was going to come back into the room. Bucky didn’t even know where he had gone in the first place, though he assumed downstairs. The tension was killing him, the anticipation of being found, discovered, dragged out of hiding for whatever else Steve had planned for him. Because surely it couldn’t be just soft kisses and gentle touches. Bucky didn’t trust that it was going to be that simple, stay at that safe level that didn’t scare him. And hiding was his best option at getting out of this, because he’d already lost two fights with Steve and he really didn’t know how far running was going to get him. If Steve was this committed to getting him, Bucky was sure that running wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

So he sat in the darkness, and waited.

* * *

Fury

* * *

Entering the house quietly wasn’t as easy as Fury had thought it would be. The door made a slight noise, very quiet, though it sounded much louder in the stillness and silence of the house. It didn’t make it much better that he didn’t know where Steve was, or if he was even here. The other house had been completely empty, and since the rest of the force hadn’t arrived, and Banner had taken the kids to a safer place, Nick hadn’t wasted a second running up the front steps of the house, the house dark with most of the lights off. He wasn’t sure if Steve was here, but it was better to check and be wrong than potentially let the bastard get away. And Steve Rogers was the worst kind of murderer. He’d found the bodies of the teenage couple in the other house, grotesquely displayed with so much rage and anger and cruelty that it had to be none other than Rogers himself. Nick recognized the blade marks, how the knife sliced through the kids with such strength and power. One second he had been looking at two murdered teenagers, then the next it had been Sarah herself, her blue eyes wide and blank, blonde hair streaked with blood. He had blinked, feeling his breath still in his chest, and Sarah was gone once again and the two kids were in her place instead. The crime had looked like a sacrifice to some twisted god; tribute to the crimes that Steve had committed before, and an offering of more now that he was free and able to kill again.

Which made Nick all the more certain that he was going to find another body here. The ‘Bucky’ that the wild, panicked teen had spoken of when he found Bruce and the kid in the street. Nick dreaded the thought of finding another teen body stretched out, another sick sacrifice to the act of killing, the only thing that he knew Steve praised. If there was another body, that would make it three murders in the span of a few hours. 

Steve was unhinged, running on something that fueled no normal human. There was no telling how many bodies were awaiting him in the future because of this sick, twisted animal. Twenty years ago, Nick had left the Rogers’ house a naive man, giving a ten year old boy a nod for a goodbye instead of unloading a clip into his skull. 

He wouldn’t make that mistake twice. 

He wouldn’t do anything until Steve Rogers was nothing more than an unmarked gravestone, or a pile of ash to be dumped in a mud pit, or dead body left in a field to rot. 

Nick continued up the stairs. His grip on his weapon was sure, ready to fire at the slightest movement, the softest sound. He was halfway up when suddenly the board beneath his foot creaked. _ Shit _. 

Every part of his body locked up. He paused, holding his breath and listening for anything that would give something away. His finger moved onto the trigger. The house itself was fraught with a heavy, oppressive sense of dread, a thick tension coating the air with the anxiety bubbling up in his stomach. It wasn’t that he was anxious about Steve, no-- _ fuck _no, he was ready for the bastard-- rather, he was more worried about finding another body. Bucky’s body. Another teen who’s life was cruelly ripped away by something inhuman. 

He moved to take another step when suddenly there was a loud crashing sound upstairs, like wood being splintered apart. _ Jesus _ . His heart dropped and instantly, Nick finished climbing them as quickly and quietly as he could, his gun held out in front of himself in preparation as his heartbeat picked up. _ Oh god _, he could hear it now, the same splintering sound along with someone crying out, yelping at each hit against the wood. It was coming from one of the bedrooms, and he quickly slipped to the doorway.

And there he was. 

At long last. 

Steve was hacking at the door to the closet in an effort to get in, and Nick couldn’t see who was inside but knew that it had to be the boy, Bucky. “Steve!” he yelled, raising the gun, and Steve turned to look at him, those pale blue eyes steely and--

There was a knife in Steve’s hand and he was coming towards him— without thinking about it, Nick’s finger pressed onto the trigger. Once, twice-- _ three, four, five _ times the gun went off, loud and booming in the room. Each shot hit Steve square in the chest, knocking him back a few steps. But Nick didn’t stop. 

He kept on firing-- _ six, seven, eight _\-- advancing on him as Steve kept stumbling back, until he was out the balcony door. One more shot and Steve tipped over the edge, disappearing from sight. Nick instantly raced to the closet door, hitting away the splintered wood so he could unwrap the fabric holding the door handles shut, finally seeing the young brunet teenager who was inside, panicked and tears streaking down his face.

“Are you alright?” Nick asked, voice loud, firm, worry coloring his tone, and the boy nodded, his entire body visibly shaking. Nick instantly pulled away, jogging over to the balcony to look over the side, down at the ground where Steve should have fallen.

There was no one there. 

Nick swallowed, his throat clenched and dry. His eyes frantically skimmed the backyard for any signs of Steve but it was dark and there was nothing but shadows. He could hear the police sirens as they approached but it didn’t matter-- Steve was gone yet again, disappearing into the wind as if he had never been there. 

Nick frantically turned back toward the teen cowered in the closet and quickly reached down, grabbing Bucky by his upper arm and hoisting him up. 

They had to leave. 

* * *

Steve

* * *

Out in the darkness of the woods, he walked quickly, shedding the dark, stolen shirt he’d been wearing. Underneath, hidden from view before, was the protective vest stolen from a security guard he’d knocked out in his escape. He stripped it off now, tossing it to the ground without breaking stride, revealing a secondary shirt, this one a mere t shirt. He didn’t even feel the cold as he walked, finding the perfect spot that would keep him hidden yet still able to watch the house. 

He could see Fury from here, watching as that damn man pulled Bucky from the closet and put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, saying something that was too quick for Steve to read. 

But all could see is that hand on Bucky, touching and feeling something that belonged to Steve and _ Steve _only.

His eyes tore away from them, however, when he saw the four police cars suddenly pull up, red and white lights bright in the dark night sky. Officers swarmed the house, running in with their guns up. Like they each had the soul purpose of bringing Steve to his end. 

The joke was on them. 

Steve’s gaze flickered back to the upstairs windows, finding Bucky now being approached by the officers. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, watching as Fury and Bucky get circled by a handful of cops while others fan out, some going through the house as others beginning to search out around the house. 

Steve watched all of it. Waiting. Anticipating for the right move. He’ll only have one chance and it’ll have to be executed perfectly.

His chance comes eventually. Only minutes later when one officer started to head in his direction, flashlight out and aimed at the ground as if looking for footsteps. Almost all of them are looking toward the ground and it seems as if Fury made the foolish decision that Steve must have left, instructing his units to look for clues rather than Steve instead.

The officer gets too close. It’s a man, large enough that the uniform will fit Steve. He’s perfect. 

Steve steps from the shadows like a blur. 

The police officer doesn’t see him coming. One second the officer is looking for clues, and the next, Steve snapped his neck and dragged his body into the brush. As he stripped the man, he whispers to himself, his tongue practicing speech that he had avoided for years, his mind churching the same name over and over. “Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. _ My _Bucky.”

* * *

Bucky

* * *

“Watch your head kid,” the officer instructs him as the back door of the police cruiser is popped open. There’s something incredibly soft in his voice, something kind in his voice and eyes. It’s _ pity _ , Bucky realizes. This man beside him is empathizing for what Bucky has just gone through, but seeing it-- it makes Bucky suck in a shaky breath knowing that he got off easy. His friends were dead, and every time he blinks, he can see Sharon’s lifeless eyes staring back at him, Phil’s blue tinged lips parted, a dead cry of help forever frozen on his face. Bucky doesn’t deserve pity, _ they _do. All he has is a bruise forming against his cheek and faint marks around his wrists where Steve held him down. But bruises heal. 

Death isn’t as forgiving. 

He ducks down like he’s told and slides into the backseat. When the door shuts behind him, he still jumps. His nerves are shot to hell, fried and skewered, and he feels so incredibly _ drained _. He’s tired and his eyelids feel so heavy and all he wants to do is fall asleep. The officer said that he’d be taking Bucky to join his family at the police station where they were waiting for him. The station is a good fifteen minutes from his house so Bucky settles in against the right side door, wrapping his arms around his abdomen and trying to curl in on himself as much as he could. 

It’s when the police officer’s front door opens and he sticks his head in, that he must see that Bucky’s shaking. Shivering. Because he quickly turns the AC down and asks if Bucky would like a jacket. 

Wordlessly, Bucky nodded and the officer turned back around before making his way to the back of the car, toward the trunk. The officer left the driver’s door wide open so the gust of autumn wind that slams into the car ruffles Bucky’s hair, making him shiver. 

Through the rearview mirror he watched as the trunk of the car popped open. Bucky tore his gaze away and looked toward his house instead, seeing the array of officers and police cars litter the front of his house and the Stark’s too. It looks like something from a horror movie, when something terrible happens and the whole state police force arrives to do as much as they can. Things like that were never supposed to happen to him, yet, he has two dead friends, possibly a third, and he had almost joined them. Almost. But not quite. 

Bucky’s body rocks forward and a thud comes from the back of the car, something being dropped in the trunk. He holds his breath and for a split second, his eyes widen in fear, but then the trunk closes and he sees the officer’s body start back around the car. The left door opens up and the officer sticks his arm in, silently offering Bucky a PD jacket. Bucky takes it and pulls his against his chest, tucking his chin in and breathing into the fabric as he leans back against the door. 

His eyes are focused outside the window, staring blankly at the black darkness of the woods that the streetlights don’t reach. As he does, the officer slides into the driver’s side, closing the door behind him and immediately the lights go out. The officer doesn’t look back at him, doesn’t even talk, and Bucky is grateful for it. He’s too tired to do anything but sit in the silence, keeping himself bundled up in the jacket and head rested against the seat. 

The officer puts the car into drive and Bucky breathes out a slow breath. 

He lets his eyes flutter close thinking that in fifteen minutes, the officer will wake him up when they reach the station. 

But that doesn’t happen. 

His body jolts awake, heart pounding and blood rushing in his ears. He’s just had a nightmare, he thinks, but he isn’t entirely sure it was that. When he tries to remember, all he can recall is sharp blue eyes trained on him and the warm touch of a large hand as it slides against his stomach, holding him down.

Bucky licks his lips and sits up, blinking as he realizes he’s still in the backseat of the police cruiser. He knows he dozed off but he also knows that it’s been a long while. He can feel it in his bones that it’s been more like hours that he’s been asleep because he can just _ tell _. He rubs at his eyes and turns his head to look out the window, trying to see anything familiar but it’s still night and everything is dark. He doesn’t see the usual streetlights that litter every street of his town, let alone a house or car. It seems like he’s in the middle of nowhere. 

He rubs at his eyes harder, forcing himself to wake up fully. Maybe Fury had moved his family to a safe house for the time being. That would make sense considering Steve was still out there. Somewhere. Maybe waiting for him. 

He lets the car ride continue for what feels like five to ten minutes, letting his eyes shift from the front of the car to the windows, and back. The lights are still out and he can’t see the officer but surely the man knows that Bucky’s awake now. 

Just to make sure, Bucky breaks the silence asking, “Sir? Where are we going?” 

He’s met with silence. One minute turns into two, then three, and yet the officer stays facing forward, ignoring him. 

Bucky clears his throat gently, thinking that maybe the officer had just zoned out and not heard him. So he tries for a second time. “Excuse me, sir--” he licks at his lips again. They feel so dry. He needs something to drink. “Sir, where are we going? Is there a change of plan?”

Yet again, nothing. Just silence. 

Something heavy begins to sink in. It makes him feel lightheaded, like he’s not getting enough air. Bucky frantically pushes the jacket away from his body and leans forward, trying to see the officer. “Sir?” 

He’s close now that when his eyes land on the driver, he sees that familiar set of shoulders-- the same ones that had been hovering over him; the same ones that looked down at him from the top of the Stark’s stairs. He sees the dark blond hair that curls against the nape of the driver’s neck-- remembering how he had frantically turned his head inward and saw the golden strands when teeth had sunk into his shoulder. He sees the large hands that grip tightly against the wheel-- the same hands that had held Bucky down, the same that had struck him across the cheek. And he knows. 

Dread settled deep in his gut, making him tense up. He can feel his hands begin to tremble, can see how his eyes begin to tear up. His veins are ice. 

“...Steve?” he whispered. 

The driver suddenly picked his head up and Bucky is met with bright blue eyes in the rear view mirror. He _ knows _those eyes. He saw them in his dream.

Bucky gasped and without taking his attention off of Steve, his hand fumbles for the door handle, desperately pulling on it. It’s no use. The door stays locked. But he keeps tugging and tugging, praying for a miracle. The tears are freely falling down his face now and to his own ears, his sobs sound loud. His breathing sounds even louder. 

“No-- no-- no, _ please _.” 

Those large hands tighten on the wheel and the car keeps going, going, going.


End file.
